


ghosts (living and dead)

by wordshavepower



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, F/M, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26828872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordshavepower/pseuds/wordshavepower
Summary: Inspired by HBO's Perry Mason. Harry's a PI hired by the Caine family to investigate the brutal murder of a baby, along with his associate, lawyer Julian Shea. As he gets further wrapped up in the case, he gets drawn closer to an old flame, Macy Vaughn. The case's stakes get ever higher as Harry and Macy get drawn into the complicated, corrupt web of 1931 Los Angeles.
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	ghosts (living and dead)

**Author's Note:**

> Go easy on me! This is my first Charmed fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it!

Late one morning in 1931 Los Angeles, Harry Greenwood finds himself standing on the steps of the Caine mansion, waiting to be invited in with his reluctant partner, attorney-at-law Julian Shea. “Do you think they’re ever going to let us in, or am I just going to fry out here like an egg in the sun?” He squints and looks out over the expansive property. The yard is prim, neatly trimmed, and a garden runs around the length of the house. Harry can’t remember the last time his house looked this nice.

“Considering the egg stain on your tie, Greenwood, I’d say you’re already halfway there to frying on the sidewalk.” Julian snickers. Of course, he looks much more the type to be on the Caines’ payroll, wearing a properly tailored suit, crisp tie, and holding a leather briefcase gifted to him by his father. Harry suddenly looks down, self-conscious. There is a yellow stain on his tie, _goddamnit_. “I thought I told you to look decent, Harold.”

“Oh, bugger off, Julian. And it’s not egg. It’s mustard, I think.”

“Classy as ever.” Julian laughs heartily this time, and as he does, the door suddenly whips open. Harry nudges him hard, and he thankfully stifles his laughter, faking a coughing fit. This case they’ve been hired to consult on is no laughing matter.

As they’re greeted hurriedly by a frantic maid, and rushed in the sitting room, Harry takes note of the old money that must have furnished the house. The Caines have long had a hold in Los Angeles politics, and Alistair Caine is not a man to be trifled with. “Ah, Mr. Shea. Mr. Greenwood. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Alistair rises from his perch on an ornate wooden chair and extends his hand to both of them. Harry takes ahold of it first, noting first the man’s firm grip, but also his uncalloused hands. Alistair has never had a hard day’s work in his life. Harry lets go, and his attention is taken by the shaken woman on the sofa beside Alistair.

She wears a simple dress, no makeup, and her hair a mess, uncombed and wild. She addresses them as she dabs at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “Forgive my appearance, gentlemen. It has been a long night.”

“Yes, it has, Abigael, but that is quite all right, darling.” Alistair addresses her with an almost nurturing look, but something is off here. Caine only has two sons, both from marriages that ended in untimely death. He never remarried to Harry’s knowledge, so who is this mysterious “Abigael” to him?

“So, how do you know Miss…Abigael, sir?” Harry asks, as he and Julian settle into the sofa opposite Abigael’s, a coffee table between them. Alistair fixes him with a stare, as if he understands the undertone of Harry’s question. “She’s a single mother, who attends my church. Her husband died in an accident at the factory earlier this year. When I heard about her situation, I knew I had to get involved and help her get the justice she deserves.”

“You mean, the situation where her son got kidnapped, held for ransom, and wound up dead, with his eyes sewn shut?”

Julian coughs, nudging Harry in the ribs, _hard_. “What my associate is trying to say here, Mr. Caine, is that you’re very generous to help Miss…?”

Abigael looks up, her sudden seriousness catching Harry off-guard. Her brown eyes are stricken with grief. “Jameson. Abigael Jameson.”

“Yes. Miss Jameson. I don’t know if it has been explained to you fully yet, but I am an attorney hired for you. I hope to represent you in the proceedings against the people who took and killed your son.”

“So, who is your associate, then, Mr. Shea? Besides having an accent, and a smart mouth?” Alistair has fixed Harry with a cool stare, his dark eyes burning a hole into his skull. Shit. Harry pissed him off.

Julian looks at Harry a moment, before returning his attention to Caine. “Mr. Greenwood here is a private investigator who sometimes assists me on cases such as Ms. Jameson’s here. We met during the war, and Harry emigrated here soon after the fighting ended. I trust him to figure out the truth of what happened the night Baby Charlie died. He’s sharp as a tack.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Alistair’s cold stare has thawed toward him. But only slightly. Harry regrets not seeing the stain on his tie earlier.

“Is there anything you can tell me about that night Charlie went missing, Abigael?” He repositions his attention on the grieving mother, even though it’s just as hard for him to look at her as it is Caine.

“It was like any other night. I came home from work at the grocery store, and I picked Charlie up from the neighbors. I made supper, gave him a bath, and put him to bed. I fell asleep listening to the radio in the living room, and when I woke up to check on him, he was gone and there was a note in his crib telling me not to call the police and demanding all this money from me if I ever wanted to see Charlie alive again.”

“In that case, I’ll probably need to look at your apartment, speak to your neighbors, see if they saw anything unusual that night.”

“But, sir. The police already looked at my house.”

“Ms. Jameson. Again, I’m not a police officer, I don’t have access to any of those records or interviews they might have taken. And please, try to remember that I am on your side here.”

“Of course…Mr. Greenwood, I understand.” Julian visibly relaxes next to him on the sofa, pleased with himself. This was a high-profile case, and his firm needed the money. “Would later today work, sir?” Harry nods, leaning forward.

“If you have the time this afternoon, I can come and look around.”

Julian pipes in, “I’d also like to come, if that’s okay, Miss.”

“Of course, gentlemen.”

* * *

When the two arrive at Ms. Jameson’s apartment, they note that the building is relatively new, and that the neighborhood, though bustling, is mostly friendly. Many people greet them as they enter, and children roam freely around the halls, getting into all sorts of trouble. Women are singing church hymns as they hang their fresh laundry from the windows. Harry is confused at why they aren’t keeping their children shut inside after the traction the Charlie case is gaining in the media. Any stranger could come in and snatch another child right from under their noses.

Abigael lives on the first floor, which explains how the kidnappers could have snuck Charlie out so quickly without waking his mother. The window is in the sole bedroom, and the crib where Charlie slept is right underneath it. They could have eased it open and stolen the child within a minute or so. He notes that dust has settled on the sill, and the large bed where his mother slept has been left unmade. “I can’t sleep in here knowing what happened to him.” Harry turns, but still says nothing. “Do you have children, Mr. Greenwood?”

“Please, call me Harry. I’d prefer it…I have an eight-year old son. His name is Carter.”

“Ah, eight is such an adventurous age. Charlie loved the sounds of the cars, the trains at the station. Does your son like trains, Harry?”

“Yes. I do believe he does. I don’t see him as often as I would like. He and his mother live in San Francisco these days.”

“Ah. I’m sorry for prying. It’s hard to talk about losing someone you love.”

“Indeed.” But instead of thinking of Clara leaving him, he is merely reminded of a fountain in the middle of Mexico, drunk on mezcal and dancing with her. Fucking hell. He can’t still be hung up on her.

“Harry. You good?” Julian’s voice cuts into the vibrant memory suddenly playing on repeat in his mind.

“Fine, Julian. Let’s keep looking around.” Harry shakes his head, as if that can shake the memories of Macy loose, and strides to the door, pausing once before sharply shutting the door. Abigael’s neighbors offer a few more hints to who the killer might be, but not much. A handyman was called earlier that week to the building before Charlie was kidnapped, a teenage boy saw a man with dark clothes rushing away from the building with a bundle the night Charlie was taken, but of course, these leads are nothing of substance. Dead ends. This case might not be as cut-and-dry as he thought.

* * *

A week later, however, Julian alerts him to a situation at the Los Angeles Police Department. A uniformed cop in a Black neighborhood stumbled upon a crime scene in an empty apartment building. Three bodies, all of them white men, and an odd blood trail that leads to the roof, but no fourth body. There was an empty briefcase eerily similar to the one Abigael Jameson left for the kidnappers in exchange for her son. Harry tracks him down, writing traffic tickets. “Galvin Burdette?”

He seems on edge, looking at Harry like a skittish animal, ready to run at a moment's notice. “What do you want? I told the detectives everything I know.”

“Well, I’m working with Julian Shea, who represents Abigael Jameson, the mother in the Baby Charlie murder? That briefcase you mentioned?”

“It was empty. That’s all I got for you. Now would you mind, I have work to do.” Galvin turns sharply on his heel and goes to cross the street, ignoring the steady flow of traffic. Harry shakes his head in exasperation and makes to follow him.

“Wait! What about the blood trail? I saw it. The detectives think it leads from the roof downward, but I think you’re smarter than that. There’s a fourth man out there, maybe dead, maybe injured. I need to find him.” Galvin whips around, anger in his eyes.

“I told you everything I know. I’m just a beat cop. Not a detective. Now, get out of my face.”

“They got to you, didn’t they?”

“Why do you care if they did?”

“Because an innocent child is dead, Mr. Burdette. He was helpless, an eight-month old.” Now that seems to rattle him a bit, and the tension is replaced by a look Harry can't place.

“Look, yes. I think your theory is right. But I don’t have anything else for you. Besides the briefcase, there was nothing there of value.” His attention is suddenly caught on something else behind Harry. “Hey sweetheart, how was the interview?” Harry turns, and is suddenly struck again by the memory of that fountain in Mexico, the heady perfume of mezcal and flowers winding around his brain like a vise. She doesn’t look a day older than she did dancing with him in that fountain. " _You could just tell me you like me."_ _She spins around, the bottom of her red dress floating in the water. She ponders for a moment, but then smiles. He’s hooked._

_"I want my kiss, Harry."_

_"Okay, Macy. I’m coming."_ _He clambers in after her, and soon, they’re a tangle of limbs twirling in a fountain somewhere in Mexico._ “Macy.” She wears her hair in a wavy bob now, fashionable for the era, and she’s not wearing the red dress, but her eyes are the same after all these years. She pauses on the sidewalk.

“Harry. What a coincidence. Can I ask why you’re talking to my husband, Mr. Private Investigator?” Harry should probably form a proper thought in this moment, but all he can think about is: _Galvin. Her husband. Shit._

_tbc_


End file.
